


Against a Rough Dirty Mat

by DarknessBreathing (Breath4Soul)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Coming In Pants, Coming Untouched, Dark Past, Drug Use, Embarrassed Sherlock, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, First Time, Flashback, M/M, Missing Scene, Overwhelmed Sherlock, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn within porn: Pornception, Prostitution, Roughness, Virgin Sherlock, dark phil rask, interested john, sherlock gets in over his head
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-08-09 05:29:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16443782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Breath4Soul/pseuds/DarknessBreathing
Summary: A smutty little fic about Sherlock's first time and his first time getting off with John present. Turns out he likes it rough, dangerous and dirty in every sense of the words.Inspired by when WillowGrove said in the notes of her fic about Sherlock's first time at the hands of Phil RaskAgainst Flaking Paint and Rugged Concrete"And now I think there is an obvious call for another ficlet for what happens after "Oh, hello, John! Didn't expect to see you here. Come for me, too?" in His Last Vow...Challenge Accepted :-)





	Against a Rough Dirty Mat

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Against Flaking Paint and Rugged Concrete](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7981399) by [WillowGrove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WillowGrove/pseuds/WillowGrove). 



“Oh, hello, John. Didn't expect to see you here.” Sherlock twists on the flat mat he's almost fused to, drawn to the familiar timber of John's soothing voice like a moth to a flame. He hadn't been seen by John when the ex-soldier burst into this rotting and condemned building for the rotting and condemned dredges of humanity but he couldn't resisted the temptation to reveal himself. He wants John to see this. See what he's been reduced to - or what he _always was_ without him. 

Besides, what more can John do to him, really? His flesh is singed from the fire of cocaine coursing through his veins. His heart is only shredded tatters. His mind has made a home of wallowing in his own disgusting sorrow; playing all the memories of his massive failures when it comes to John on constant loop. So he flings himself headlong at this new promise of exquisite agony. 

He is ready. 

Ready to embrace the bittersweet sting of sadness and disappointment sure to be pouring from every line of John's face. Ready for the hollow, mockery of love that is John's natural caretaker instincts. 

“Come for me, too?" He lets the words slide smoothly off his lips in that imperious and almost playful tone that is sure to get under John's skin. Sherlock has always enjoyed courting danger and, in this moment, his body is humming with anticipation and he's almost grinning as he watches John pivot slowly towards him. 

In the pale, sickly light of the crack house, their eyes lock. 

Sherlock freezes; stock still and helpless.  
_Something has changed._  
Before him is not the kindly doctor but that rarely-glimpsed, exquisitely fierce beast usually locked under John's careful control. 

John is crouching; back stiff, chin tucked, snarled lip barely covering clenched teeth. His eyes are piercing into Sherlock, bright and hard, like a vicious animal about to pounce. There has never been anything so frightening as John's blisteringly cold expression as he takes in the mess Sherlock has become. Sherlock feels it shake through him like a subatomic explosion.

They are frozen like that for an eternity; staring at each other. Around the two of them the decrepit building turns thin and watery like an ink sketch being destroyed by the rain. The once hard, defined edges of the rough wooden floors, broken out windows and paint-chipped walls are now blurring and running together. Sherlock feels his edges slipping away too, blurring, melting into nothing before John. 

John tips his head ever so slightly to the side, gaze fixed but narrow and calculating, like the moment before he pulls a gun on a criminal - that delicious instant right before he turns into a deadly weapon. He lifts one eyebrow as if he has just looked straight into Sherlock's deepest recesses and watched every secret unravel, feeling nothing but a distant curiosity at the horrific mess. 

It is not hard at all to imagine that this is a man that has killed people.

With that one, genuine look, Sherlock is stripped down to his essence. He’s exposed; vulnerable and completely at John's mercy. John has seen him - truly seen him. He has peeled off the hard-won layers of protection around Sherlock, like they were nothing more than the shiney, silken layers of an onion's skin, leaving only the filthy, stingly raw and noxious being at his core. It's thrilling and terrifying. 

John at last turns away, but Sherlock still can't move. There is no relief from the tension; no release from John's hold. Even when he's not directing that hardened stare at him, Sherlock feels the thread of awareness between them, binding him to that squalid mattress. 

He is shaken down to his very core by the turn of events. He is so used to being on the other end of things; the one in complete control, exposing other people's secrets in the spotlight of his brilliance and watching them squirm beneath the scrutiny. Now John has all the knowledge - all the power - and the thought of what he could do with it… it's terrifying... and titillating.

He looks down at his uncooperative body hidden beneath dirt-smeared and too-loose sweatpants and a threadbare shirt and finds he is quivering, bones rattling inside his skin. Not even the Hound with its glowing eyes, razor teeth, and night black fur had made Sherlock feel so frantic. Then, at least, it had been pure fear, pure terror, pure revulsion. This is a many spiked weapon; fear and lust and shame and need and self-loathing and desire spinning like a ball of daggers, shredding his insides.

He feels like a human inferno; ears and cheeks and groin heating unbearably. He squeezes his thighs together and presses his eyes shut, trying to choke off the swell of needy flesh. 

He pushes it all away and tries to mentally steel himself for the fight that's sure to come. He calls up all those biting quips that he'd been over and over in his mind. They are certain to spurn John on and bring this long-deteriorating relationship to its final explosive end.

“You go on downstairs, Isaac,” John is saying and he is helping a young, simpering man to his feet. “There's a car outside. I'll be down in a moment.” Isaac staggers and mutters softly to himself about his mother and getting into trouble as he picks his way across the room. He eventually disappears down the stairs. 

Then it is just John. 

The room seems to shrink and expand all at once as Sherlock watches John's back; the coil of muscles, the tense shoulders, the military posture. He watches those perfect, sturdy fingers, capable of inflicting or soothing pain, curl and uncurl into a tight ball. 

It's so quiet. 

He shifts, forces a breath, digs dirty fingers into the mattress and then lifts his chin.

“John, I think you should know-”

“No.” Clear and sharp, slicing through the stale air, straight into Sherlock's chest. John is still not looking at him. His hands are clenched now; perfectly deadly fists. Sherlock tries to focus. He starts again.

“It's all perfectly logical-” 

“You _bastard_. How long?” John pivots, quick and precise. His eyes are hot coals as he marches forward with such stalwart determination that Sherlock chokes on his own sharp inhalation. His body instinctively jerks back and smacks against the wall with a thunk that rattles his teeth. His hair catches on the chipped paint of the wall as he slumps down. He blinks back the white flares on the edges of his vision to find John leaning over him, glaring into his face. John's hand is curled around the back of Sherlock's skull, fingers anchored in Sherlock's hair enough to give a rough tug, pulling him forward.

“What the _bloody hell_ are you thinking?” His breath is warm on Sherlock’s face; tea and toothpaste. Suddenly nothing he wanted to say to John (none of those harsh, cutting words) have any meaning. Sherlock opens and closes his mouth like a fish cast out on shore. 

_Open, closed, open, closed._  
Fucking fruitless. 

“Well?” Another tug and those unyielding eyes are demanding an answer. 

Sherlock tries to slow his mind down, tries to process all the sensations one by one so he can box them up and push them aside. 

John fingers are tangled in his hair, rough against his scalp, and each tug sends an exhilarating sensation skittering over Sherlock's scalp, short-circuiting his brain. John's other arm is braced on the mat by Sherlock's shoulder and his knee is planted by Sherlock's hip as John leans over his inclined body. He is caged and John's face is so close, eyes hard, teeth bared. He could bite. He could do _anything_ , really... and that shouldn't arouse Sherlock so much but it does. And, god, if… if John finds out what state he's really in...

Sherlock tries to push himself back into the mattress and put some distance between their bodies. His quivering legs feel like jelly, knocking against the hard muscle of the inside of John's thigh. His heels slide against the mat and bump against John's tensed calf. He swiftly brings his leg up towards his chest and kicks down hard on John's shin. Then it's only a fast hit to John's inside elbow with palm and John is falling sideways with a curse. Sherlock twists onto his stomach and scrabbles frantically up the mat on his forearms. 

“No. Don't you even fucking try-” A low growl and John's weight thumps down on Sherlock's back, pushing him flat. There's a mad scramble. Sherlock tries to throw an elbow back at John. John blocks it and forces his arm down to the mat, grabs his wrist and pins it with a firm grip. 

This swift and efficient takedown is like a jolt of electricity through Sherlock's system, lighting up his brain with a perverse thrill at the struggle and defeat. This is what he wants. What he needs; this dangerous, raw truth of John Watson. Christ how Sherlock has craved this… and feared it (though he'd never admit to either of those things aloud). 

He tries to wrench his hand free and John's grip only tightens. The pressure and friction of John's strong, capable body wriggling on top of his own is only serving to grind Sherlock's hard length into the grimy mattress. It's maddening.

“Get off,” Sherlock snarls into the mattress, trying to twist beneath John. John grunts and his harsh breath puffs on the back of Sherlock’s neck. Heat crackles down Sherlock's spine to spark already excited muscles and nerves. He shivers and tries to hide it by throwing his head back. 

John jerks his own head away just in time to dodge the crack to his nose but it obviously infuriates him. An arm slips into a chokehold around Sherlock's throat.

“Stop, Sherlock.” John's lips are right by Sherlock's ear; commanding but calm, in spite of the desperate struggle. “Just fucking stop. You know what I can do to you.” John's arm tightens its hold on Sherlock's neck as John's hand tightens on his wrist.

A sound chokes out of Sherlock at those words and is blessedly muffled into the mat. There's something so delicious in that thought - the implications that John can take control and make him surrender - could take all of him - _like only one man had before._ Memories - dangerous memories - begin to tug at the corners of his mind.

“Don't move.” John has pulled back and his hand is on Sherlock's neck, sternly pushing it into the mat. He grabs Sherlock's arm and twists it up his back. “Let me see.” 

Sherlock tries to resist it, using all his strength to keep his arm from being twisted up behind his back, but John has far too much experience cuffing criminals and holding them until NSY finally catches up. Then warm, slightly callused fingers are sliding against Sherlock's forearm, pushing his sleeve up. 

Sherlock holds himself very still, everything focused on that touch. On some level he knows there's nothing behind it - _none of the things he wants, anyhow._ Yet, if Sherlock closes his eyes, it almost feels like John is insistently exploring his body, like a lover demanding to know all of his prize. 

“Stop,” Sherlock breathes, but it has no conviction behind it because it's the furthest thing from what he truly wants.

“Like hell I will,” John mutters, fingers digging into the muscle of Sherlock's neck while the other continues to push up his sleeve. Sherlock shifts his legs in a fruitless expression of rebellion. He realises too late that John is sitting on the back of his thighs and his weight anchoring the fabric of Sherlock's sweatpants is only managing to inch his trousers down with each squirming movement. It's only when he feels the tip of his cock rub against the rough fabric of the mat that the folly of his efforts becomes apparent to him. 

Suddenly Sherlock is caught in the memory of the domineering American agent that took his pleasure in Sherlock mercilessly while in a dark and dank crack house very much like _this._ The Man - the stranger that John reminds him of in moments when he lets his true nature shine through.

> Whatever it may have once been, the condemned building with the busted out windows and leaking roof was little more than a rotting and crumbling heap now, bowing down, subservient to the elements and infested with the outcasts of the city, scurrying in the dark corners like rats. Full of thieves, crackheads and runaways, it was not a place people went unless they had nowhere else to go. Yet, the man that strutted in, with all the hardened confidence of a killer, clearly came looking for just such a place. 
> 
> He was the real deal; so controlled and commanding that it was threatening on a primal level and the people scattered around the room, in their various states of delirium, recoiled instinctively at his presence. 
> 
> Sherlock had never seen anything like him. There was his shiny shoes and crisp trousers, his perfectly starched white shirt and the golden brown hair, gone gray and slicked to the side. If there was any doubt about his casual air of authority, one need only look to the blatant threat of his gun in a holster on his hip; law enforcement but not military or even police - he was something completely different. An agent of some kind. Foreign.
> 
> He was clearly out of place in the dingy crack house, but he had somehow made it feel as if he belonged there more than anyone - as if he owned the room and everything in it and had the power to destroy it or remake it to his liking. 
> 
> His eyes had glinted with something hungry as they swept over the bodies huddled in the dark, like they were an offering lain at his feet and he was trying to determine if any one of them were truly worthy. His hands were on his hips and he had rocked onto his toes slightly, lips pursed in consideration, as he flexed his pelvis forward, subtly drawing attention to the prominent bulge of his half-hard cock. It was clear what he wanted.
> 
> Sherlock had known the exact moment he was seen. It felt like the first time someone had really seen him in his whole life. He was sitting on an old mattress in the corner, peering up at the intruder from under wild, chemist store dyed blondish hair (an effort to avoid being found by Mycroft). His long arms were wrapped around his knees that were drawn up to his chest. He was 19, but had been told he looked much younger; all pale and scrawny limbs, and large eyes. He looked like what he was, dirty, strung out and alone - a runaway with no future, trying desperately to escape his past. 
> 
> The man saw something he liked. His lips tipped up in a half smile and, like a lion sighting its next meal, something predatory slipped into his whole frame as he strode right up to Sherlock. He bent down, slid his gun-calloused fingers under Sherlock's chin and firmly tipped his face up, staring down at him with his dark blue eyes. 
> 
> “You'll do.” Clearly an American accent. Southern but not the twang of the deep South. Florida, maybe. “£50. That mouth.” The American moved his thumb to the corner of Sherlock's mouth, firmly brushing over it and catching in the hinge.
> 
> Sherlock hadn't needed the money. That was easy to come by if you were clever, quick and observant. And though he didn't show much care for his body by refusing to eat or sleep and by pumping it full of drugs, he'd never let anyone touch him or wanted to touch another before.
> 
> Then again, he had never been desired before - demanded, in fact. He'd felt completely off balance. However, that hadn't kept him from his natural instinct to be divisive. 
> 
> “£200,” he snapped back at the man haughtily, sure that it was far more than the man wanted to spend for some quick and dirty tumble with a random junkie. After all, there was no lack of established sex workers in London, yet this man had come here instead. Maybe he wanted a challenge or maybe he just wanted a cheap fuck.
> 
> The American lifted one eyebrow, his smile deepening. 
> 
> “Mmm. That voice.” His hand slipped from Sherlock's chin to clasp Sherlock's throat, holding it while stroking up and down the length of the tendon there with his thumb. There was threat in it but there was threat in everything the man did, as if he naturally oozed the promise of violence and destruction. “£200.” His grin was positively terrifying. “And I'll take more than your mouth. I'll fuck that filthy little ass of yours and hear you scream.” 
> 
> Sherlock had nowhere to go with that. He’d bluffed and the man had met him move for counter move. It wasn't about the money at all then. Not the challenge either. It was something _more._
> 
> Sherlock didn't understand and that was a rare experience for him. He sat helpless before this fierce, powerful man and it was intoxicating. A sensation of heat rushed through his body with dizzying force. He blinked and blinked and only managed a small nod. 
> 
> “Against the wall.” The American said, yanking Sherlock up to his feet with ease. Before Sherlock had time to process what he'd agreed to, he was facing the wall, hands splayed against the chipped plaster, legs spread, and arse bare to the cool air. His trousers and pants had been efficiently yanked down to the back of his thighs, heedless to the fact that everyone else in proximity could see, should they care to look. Embarrassment flushed Sherlock from chest to the tips of his ears at being so exposed. It was wrong, but somehow the thought of being on display, of the obscene spectacle of everyone being able to see, heightened the sensations building within him.
> 
> He looked down to see his own cock filling out as a shiny black shoe slipped between his feet and kicked them further apart. Hands landed on his hips and yanked them backward and Sherlock had to scramble to catch himself, nearly smacking his face against the wall in an effort to brace himself. His torso was nearly parallel to the ground now. The man's hands moved to firmly grip his cheeks and it occurred to him, for the first time in his life, that he might - quite possibly - be very much in over his head. Then he was grateful for the position because it hid his expression of confusion, excitement and terror. It was the perfect position from which to hyperventilate. 
> 
> Those same demanding hands kneaded the flesh of his arse in a very perfunctory way, as if merely testing the give, then pried open his cheeks. It was several agonizingly long seconds of silence and stillness as the American seemed to consider his purchase. Sherlock waited in the agony of not knowing; the anticipation and irritation swelling unbearably beneath his skin until he was shivering with it.
> 
> Then one hand of the man's moved away and, after a moment straining to hear anything to indicate what was happening, Sherlock could discern the repetitive hush of fabric. He realised the man was languidly stroking himself through his trousers as he kept Sherlock in that awkward position, on display. He felt a new surge of… _something_... (humiliation? gratification?) at being an a object for this impressively ferocious man's pleasure and nothing more. He had ultimately decided it must be pleasure because his cock had grown harder still, bobbing obscenely between his legs.
> 
> “Should I fuck you dry, little whore?” The American's voice was dark. This was no empty threat, he would do it and delight in the destruction. “Shove it in you with nothing more than what precum you can milk from me? Make you earn it - feel every inch? Ruin you for anyone else?” 
> 
> A thumb slipped down Sherlock's crease, pressing firmly against the sensitive skin of his entrance. It felt huge and rough and no one had ever touched Sherlock there before. He yelped and all his arse muscles clenched, hard as rock in the American's grip as he tried to pull away. The man's grip tightened to bruisingly harsh and didn't allow him to retreat. 
> 
> The dark chuckle that rumbled from the American behind him was infuriating and humiliating. The man knew - knew exactly how untried Sherlock was. Sherlock immediately bit his lip against making any further noise but the damage had been done.
> 
> The man leaned down, over Sherlock and Sherlock could feel the hard butt of the man's gun on his belt digging into the soft flesh of his arse. His voice in Sherlock’s ear was low, icy and amused. “Did you think I wouldn't find out?”
> 
> Sherlock tried to pull away again, certain it was a rejection, but the fingers bit harshly into his hips, holding him in place.
> 
> “Don't - don't do that,” the man said in a voice that was so oddly empty that it was almost more terrifying for its blandness. “You move when I tell you. We have an arrangement, yeah. We have an arrangement and I’m not done with you.” 
> 
> He pulled back and Sherlock heard the distinctive sound of a packet ripping open as he struggled to stay very still.

“John?” Sherlock is breathing heavily and trembling slightly but trying hard to stay still. 

“Give it up, you prick. I'm going to have a look and you can't stop me,” John growls as he pushes the sleeve up the last bit to expose the crook of Sherlock's elbow. Sherlock mashes his eyes closed and tries not to let those obscene words overwhelm him with fantasy. His hips are rocking now and the too rough and filthy fabric of the mat is building a steady wave of pleasure/pain that he feels helpless to stop.

He focuses on what John must see; the bruises of old puncture wounds artfully littered over his marble white arm. All on display, right there, by the crest of Sherlock's half-naked arse. John, who holds him so high above other men, is at last seeing that he is not pure and untouchable, but damaged and filthy and... desperate to be taken. Sherlock tilts his spine ever so slightly, his cock rubbing against coarse mat while his arse presses back against John. John doesn't seem to notice, just seems to think Sherlock is still trying to escape. He lets out a harsh breath, like an angry bull, and holds Sherlock's arm tighter.

A thumb brushes over the bruises in the crook of Sherlock's elbow and stops, pressing in slightly. The flare of pain blazes across Sherlock's brain makes a low moan escape. He tenses at his own sound. 

“You, cock! Did you think I wouldn't find out?” 

He's talking about the drug use but Sherlock can almost believe John sees the rest too - sees how he'd let John do anything to him in this moment. How desperately he wants John to devour and desecrate him and fuck him into the mattress until his tender cock is rubbed raw against the mat and he explodes in pleasure/pain. 

“It's not like you care,” Sherlock spits bitterly and he manages to yank his arm free from John's hold. He grips the mat, trying to maneuver into a position that will provide leverage enough to buck John off. 

“No you don't,” John lunges forward and lands hard against Sherlock's back. Chest and groin and everything in-between are pressed against Sherlock's backside.

Sherlock makes another sound, it's higher pitched and surely John can hear the humiliating need in it. Sherlock drives his hips down flat and buries his face in the mat to try to hide the burn of humiliation inflaming his face - John only follows. He must think Sherlock is still trying to flee because his thighs tighten on Sherlock's hips and lock his legs in place and he grabs for Sherlock's wrists, wrestling them to the mat and holding them there.

“John. John.” Sherlock tries for scornful and it comes out increasingly desperate, slipping towards pleading. 

Sherlock feels something long and hard digging into his arse and lower back. He knows it's not an erection but the sheer possibility of it and the memory of the American agent's holstered gun digging into his vulnerable flesh as the man thrust into Sherlock with increasing carelessness and vigor, makes Sherlock lose the last tether on his self-control. He erupts into the filthy mat,

Wave after wave of pleasure, made sharp with humiliation and fear, courses through Sherlock. He shudders and gasps, the too-close, stained mattress going gray then black. 

As Sherlock comes back to himself he's aware of the stillness and silence. For a moment, Sherlock just lies there in his joyous defeat. He lets the buzz of chemicals float him above it all in that glorious euphoria.

“Sherlock... did - er - did you just...?” John's voice from above Sherlock is strained. He must be trying very hard for an even, non-judgemental tone but the bleak reality of what has happened crashes down on Sherlock, sweeping away his blissful high. John hasn't pulled back. His solid weight and firm grip on Sherlock's wrists is still holding Sherlock flat. However, his breathing has changed and his muscles are rigid against Sherlock's own slack body.

Sherlock thinks that he can hear moments stretching out before him, marching him forward towards his own destruction like war drums. Faster and faster. Then he realises it is only his heart... but that truth is _worse._

_Always the heart marching him towards his own destruction._

“Get. Off. Me.” Sherlock bites out. He has to get away - far away from this mess - the evidence of his weakness and his desire, hot in the moment, is now cooling and becoming uncomfortable.

Everything smells like sex and the crushed hope and desperation of this place. His eyes are burning but the thought of letting those tears flow, well, that's more horrifying and humiliating than the wet, sticky patch at his groin. 

John's weight moves off of him, but not quickly and he doesn't retreat far. When Sherlock turns and sits up he's aware that John's hand is right by his ankle, poised like it is ready to resume a grip on any errant limbs at the first sign of a fight.

Sherlock waits, head bowed, knees clutched to chest. He waits for John's reaction, like a volatile chemical waiting dormant until an additional component is provided.

He grows impatient when John stays equally still and silent for too long. He gathers his courage to glance up at John from over his knees and under his fringe. He finds John looking completely stunned; eyes wide and searching Sherlock, mouth half agape, but there is something like amusement or maybe just mirth, curling the corner of his lips up. 

It's a bitter pill to swallow, John grinning slightly like he's just won something - probably wants to giggle, like at a crime scene. Except this time it's Sherlock he's laughing over.

“Don't,” Sherlock snaps.

“I'm -um…” John closes his mouth and tries to blink, but his eyes return to Sherlock, still wide and shining in the dim light. “I - uh - I didn't think you-”

“Yes, that's the problem, you never _think._ ” Sherlock feels the spark of vicious fury ignite, propelling him forward. He begins scrambling, gathering up the items he'd kept scattered around him during the days he'd been wasting away here; matches, cigarettes, a hand-written list. He shoves it all into his sweatpants pockets. He turns and glares at John. 

“I'm not a _machine,_ John.” It's meant to cut to the bone. John had expressed to Sherlock's tombstone (which Sherlock kept under surveillance for a time) that he felt a lot of guilt over having called Sherlock a machine right before he jumped to his apparent death and, in this moment, Sherlock would really like John to feel some fraction of the pain he feels himself. But John doesn't take the bait.

”Yeah, right. Yeah.” He nods but he is still gaping, eyes sparkling with something like awe and his mouth mostly hanging open. “I just-” He looks at the mat with that ridiculous stunned grin and Sherlock has the urge to punch him. It irritates Sherlock to no end that John seems to be thrilled by this discovery. “Um - was it the -” He moves towards Sherlock then stops himself, seeming like he is not quite sure what to do with himself. “It’s the fighting? You get off on it?”

”For Christ’s sake, John.” Sherlock sighs and rolls his eyes. He jumps to his feet, moving briskly. He snatches up an oversized coat he’d traded a man from his homeless network his nice suit jacket for. He sweeps it on and is practically lost within it - good. It hides the wet anyways. He moves towards a boarded up back door. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

John is on his feet too, moving after Sherlock, not letting him get away. “Oh, God, this is about me,” John says and Sherlock is rocketed into sheer panic. "You've done this because of me." Sherlock kicks the backdoor with all his strength and the plywood goes flying, crashing across the fire escape.

“For God’s sakes, John! I’m on a case.” He spits venomously and tries to believe it is not as petulant and defensive as it feels. He marches across the fire escape and jumps down aware that John is following.

John scoffs. “A month – that’s all it took. _One!”_

Halfway down the fire escape, Sherlock vaults over the side of it and onto a wall beside it, trying to get away. “I’m working,” he insists. He jumps down onto the top of a wheelie bin beside the wall and then down onto another one laying on its side before stepping to the ground. John follows. “I’m undercover.”

“No you’re not!” John's voice is full of knowing. There is no passing what just happened off as some case-related experiment or part of a performance. John knows the truth now. 

“Well, I’m not now!” Sherlock shouts, gesticulating angrily and feeling the urge to yank out his own hair.

John is coming and he's not going to let this go. Sherlock is terrified of what comes next. Just as John reaches him, Mary speeds up alongside them in a car and stops with a squeal of brakes. Sherlock has never been so relieved to see her. “In. Both of you, quickly,” she says firmly and Sherlock jumps in without a backward glance. 

He is careful to keep his coat wrapped around himself and not look at John as they speed away from the scene of his crime.

**Author's Note:**

> If you like this please hit the Kudos or leave a comment. I haven't been writing a lot lately and every little bit of encouragement helps. I do pay attention and appreciate the interaction!


End file.
